


A Hunter and a Sniper Walk into a Bar

by Sophia_Prester



Category: Supernatural, The Losers (2010)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Illustrated, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Prester/pseuds/Sophia_Prester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two simple jobs collide to become something a whole lot bigger and a whole lot messier. This is the story of what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hunter and a Sniper Walk into a Bar

A hunter and a sniper walk into a bar.

It’s not the start of a joke, because there’s nothing funny about this at all. It’s just a simple description of what happened _after_.

_Before_ was a straight-up clusterfuck. The hunter went in thinking he was taking out a single demon who’d been calling in deals a decade too early on behalf of his new queen. The sniper went in thinking he was taking out a single hit-man who was about to do some _very_ dirty work on behalf of a man the sniper had been chasing down for more than three years.

_After_ , it’s just two shaken, exhausted men walking into a bar. The other patrons ignore them, more or less. They sit at the far end of the bar, well away from anyone else, and for a good while they don’t talk about what happened.

What happened was that a pair of simple jobs crashed into each other and became something way the hell more complicated.

A few days prior, a demon Abaddon had ordered to collect on Crowley’s deals started working with a pack of hellhounds _and_ with a brand-new partner in a brand-new meatsuit. The other thing that happened at more or less the same time was that a hit-man Max had ordered to kill off the wives, sons, nieces, pets and houseplants of some particular thorns in his side had a back-alley encounter with a lungful of something that wasn’t just black smoke.

Once the silence between them moves from tense and brittle to companionable and easy, the sniper and the hunter order themselves a couple of drinks. There are terse introductions.

“Dean.”

“Cougar.”

Dean considers maybe making a joke, but the look in the other man’s eyes warn him off before he can do more than grin. He does say “nice hat,” though, which seems to earn him some points.

Cougar doesn’t even consider asking the other man’s last name, because he knows how these things generally work.

Dean and Cougar slam down their first round of shots, and Dean orders a second for himself out of habit and out of necessity.

“That was some damn fine shooting back there, Coug.” If he can’t take refuge in jokes, abbreviations will do.

A good sniper might be able to take out a pack of rabid dogs from a distance with little trouble. It takes a _fantastic_ sniper to take out a pack of rabid dogs from a distance when those dogs are invisible.

“Good knife work.”

A good sniper can take out a hit-man with a single headshot, but even the best sniper would be at a loss when the hit-man is still up and fighting with half of his head shot into hamburger. That’s where you need a hunter with some specialized equipment.

The two old soldiers (who are not old men, no matter that they feel otherwise at the moment) follow up their shots with a couple of beers. It’s a night for the kind of drunk you put on slow and steady, with due deliberation.

With that kind of drunk, you have a fighting chance of dealing with the nightmares _before_ you go to sleep.

For Dean, it’s a very familiar sort of nightmare. It’s more than five years familiar, full of snarls and growls and hot, putrid breath. One minute, he’s in the alley about to shank a red-eyed son of a bitch, and the next, there are claws and teeth and fuck, he’s being torn apart again, and Jo’s guts are spilling out it’s too late he’s not fast enough he’s not good enough not smart enough this was how it was always going to end…

The next minute, there’s a bang and a yelp and then the invisible weight is off his chest and he’s springing forward without thinking to sink his knife into one demon’s throat. The other demon’s head just sort of _explodes_ as he goes for Dean. It doesn’t stop the demon, but it slows him down enough that Dean can finish the job.

For Cougar, it’s a brand-new nightmare, one that might just nudge out an old one about a helicopter he should have been on, tiny remains in the wreckage, and children’s screams he never actually heard but that grow louder every time he dreams.

In this memory, he’s got his scope lined up right between his target’s eyes, and then those eyes go coal black and they’re _looking_ at him back through his scope and they keep on looking at him after the first, second, fuck, third bullets should have taken him down. He’s going to see those eyes in his dreams for a good long time. It’s a given he’ll see them in Max’s face, but it’s the thought of seeing them in Jensen’s, or Clay’s, or Pooch’s that fills him with cold dread.

They move on to a second round of beer, and that’s when the stories start. 

Cougar tells Dean about his team, and how they were betrayed - twice - by one of their own. He does not talk about helicopters, or a dozen children they meant to save but doomed instead.

Dean tells Cougar about demons, and angels, and all the other things out there that most people would rather not know about. He does not talk about losing Sam (over and over and over), or deals he might have made, or seals he might have broken.

Two people who aren’t strangers anymore sit at a bar and swap stories long into the night. The exchange is a sort of exorcism, and while it doesn’t root out everything that needs rooting out, it might be enough to keep cracks from being fractures. _Might_. They both know better than to expect guarantees. 

Once the the pressure has let up, war stories flow naturally into tall tales and talking shop. Cougar explains how he could ‘see’ the hellhounds by the dust and trash they disturbed, and how nailing them wasn’t much different from picking off a camouflaged target from among the scrub. He also provides the names of some arms dealers who could be trusted, for a given value of ‘trusted.’ Dean searches for a napkin, but gives up and empties out a salt shaker. He explains what salt can do, and draws some basic protective sigils in the spill. He also provides the name of someone who will do anti-possession tattoos and not fuck them up. They both come away with a few fresh ideas for the next time a prank war comes their way.

Dean and Cougar sit at the bar until the barkeeper calls time. Cougar doesn’t even have a chance to fake a protest before Dean throws a wad of bills on the bar.

Dean grins. “I lifted it from the guy you were after - the one with the black eyes. His treat.”

Cougar doesn’t grin, but the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. “That works.”

Dean heads towards the door. He’s not quite steady on his feet, but fatigue is just as much to blame as alcohol. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to Baby.”

Cougar, as usual, says nothing when nothing needs to be said. He just falls into step along the other man.

A hunter and a sniper walk out of a bar.

It’s not the start of a joke, but it could be the start of something else.


End file.
